


nolo contendere

by wayfarer



Category: How to Get Away with Murder
Genre: Accidents, Hospitals, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-06
Updated: 2014-11-06
Packaged: 2018-02-22 03:43:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2493182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wayfarer/pseuds/wayfarer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of all the ways Oliver imagined Connor calling him his boyfriend for the first time, this most definitely never crossed his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	nolo contendere

**Author's Note:**

> don't look at me
> 
> PS. this was unbeta'd so all mistakes are my own
> 
> PPS. i literally know squat about hospitals and google only goes so far so the general accuracy of the hospital scenes can be summed up with a vague hand-wavy gesture

> _**nolo contendere** (n.) a plea by the defendant that's equivalent to an admission of guilt (and leaves him subject to punishment) but allows him the legal option to deny the charges later_

Connor, Oliver learns early on in their non-relationship, is passionate. About his job, about his beliefs, about how others perceive him.

About sex.

He gets so _into_ it that the first night Connor was in his bed, Oliver was half convinced he was faking it. No one made noises like that in real life, especially not when their clothes were still on. Connor had let out a moan so long, so wanton that Oliver thought _alright, that's it, that's enough_. He pulled back to tell Connor he didn’t have to be there if he didn't want to, but he stopped dead in his tracks. Connor's cheeks were flushed, his bottom lip bitten raw, face all twisted up with pleasure. When he opened his eyes to look down at Oliver, to ask why he had stopped, his pupils were blown wide. And when he looked down at Connor's lap, saw how he was straining in his jeans, Oliver realized that Connor wasn't faking it.

Connor was just so _responsive_. To his own pleasure, to Oliver's. Every time Oliver had moaned or twisted or arched off the bed, Connor let out a satisfied little laugh and did it again and again, like Oliver's pleasure was just as good as his own. By the end of it, Oliver was pretty sure he was going to die. It was, without a doubt, the best sex he'd ever had.

When Connor began putting on his clothes a few hours later, hair a wreck and lazy smile on his face, Oliver couldn't help but feel disappointed. Here was this ridiculously hot, charming guy who had sex like it was a competition and Oliver only got one taste.

Of course, it ended up turning into a regular thing. Oliver wasn't stupid. He knew that part of the reason Connor (a lawyer, not a banker, _shocker_ ) kept showing up at his door was because he occasionally needed information that Oliver could easily acquire. It initially felt a little like Connor was a prostitute, trading sex for information, and Oliver was uncomfortable enough that he contemplated ending it. As time went on, though, sex was no longer contingent on information. More often than not, Connor showed up with take out and no requests for illegal computer activity at all.

Oliver was still a little unsure of what Connor thought of him as. A fuck buddy, a friend. They did do things that weren't either sex or illegal, but as soon as Oliver suggested something even semi couple-y, Connor got all tense and fidgety.

It's kind of awful and really confusing, but hey. Connor is fun and smart and has a habit of waking Oliver up with a tongue on his throat or a hand down his pants. Really, he's just trying to hold on for the ride.

Several weeks later, not much has changed.

Connor shows up a little past seven with Japanese food, a huge stack of files and a semi crazed look on his face. Oliver doesn't even ask, just fixes them each a bowl and sits on the couch. He rotates between watching TV and watching Connor sort through the ridiculous amount of paper now covering the entire surface of his coffee table. Connor is kind of sickeningly attractive when he's concentrating. He runs his hand through his hair until all the sticky gel is gone and his hair is soft and falls over his forehead. He gets this pinched expression between his eyebrows that Oliver wants to smooth out but never does and he occasionally murmurs to himself.

Regardless of how unfairly attractive Connor is doing mundane things, though, Oliver falls asleep just before midnight.

He wakes up some time later to a dark room and silence. The TV has been turned off, the only light filtering into the room now being the light over the sink in the kitchen.

Connor is straddling his lap, sucking on his neck.

“What time 's it?” he slurs, still half asleep.

He feels Connor's breathy little laugh on his neck and yeah, he’s awake now. One hand automatically finds its way into Connor's hair while the other slides underneath the plain black shirt, rubbing up and down the warm, toned skin. “Almost four,” Connor murmurs, voice low and soft. He nips at Oliver's collarbone, tongue soothing the area immediately after. He kind of wants to push his face away, tell him they aren't seventeen and there is no way in hell he's going to work with a hickey but-

“Have you not gone to bed yet?” he asks. A stupid question, but one he feels he needs to ask nonetheless.

Connor pulls back and Oliver can just make out the pout on his face that seems to pop up whenever Oliver interrupts sex with non-sex related activities. Oliver would like to argue that maybe he wouldn't have to if Connor would stop trying to get into his pants fifteen minutes before he had to leave for work, or in the middle of the night when they should be sleeping. And really, a twenty three year old pouting should not be attractive, but. Well. Oliver has already accepted his brain is mush when it comes to Connor. It's not a problem he's going to think about until he absolutely has to.

Connor grinds down into his lap and Oliver's head falls back against the couch, groan leaving his mouth. Connor follows him, mouth pressing right up to his ear. “Do you want to sleep?” he asks, still lazily rolling his hips. “Or do you want to fuck me?”

_Tough decision_ , Oliver thinks, tugging at the hem of Connor's shirt. It's on the floor within seconds and Oliver runs one hand up Connor's stomach, tracing the muscle definition, and uses the other to tug his mouth to his own. Connor's kisses are intense and impatient, like it's the first and the last time he's ever going to get the opportunity. Everything about him is like that, Oliver's realized. He does everything so _fast_ , like he literally can't wait, and Oliver just wants to push him down on the mattress, pin his arms to the bed and tell him to _slow. Down._

Easier said than done, though.

Oliver murmurs, “Bedroom” into Connor's mouth and he hums his agreement.

In one quick movement, Oliver stands up, one arm going around Connor's waist and the other under his ass. He's heavy, but the bedroom isn't far and Connor's weight isn't something he can't handle for a minute or two. Thank _god_ he decided to start going back to the gym last year.

Connor laughs, a delighted sound, his legs coming up to wrap around Oliver's waist. He breaks the kiss as he tries to pull off Oliver's plain t-shirt, but his legs are keeping it trapped in place. He makes a frustrated noise and begins yanking at the material and Oliver laughs, cupping his jaw and pulling his mouth back to his own. His other hand leaves Connor's waist to trail up his bare chest and Connor tightens his legs to make up for the shift in balance. Oliver slowly trails his fingers up, keeping the touch light and teasing. He traces the curves of his abs, working his way up to his chest until his hand is resting on his pec. He teases his finger around and around his nipple before finally squeezing it.

He realizes too late that he's made a very, very big mistake.

Connor is sensitive enough that the touch has him arching and arching _hard_. Oliver's hands are ripped away from both the back of his head and his chest, the only thing now holding Connor up being his legs wrapped around Oliver's waist. The sensation of falling, though, causes Connor to panic and his legs to loosen and before Oliver can grab him, Connor is falling backwards with a strangled yelp of surprise.

Instead of the soft thud of Connor landing on his ass on the floor like he was expecting to hear, the sound of shattering glass and a hard _crack_ ―which Oliver realizes must be Connor's head hitting the floor―fills the room. He feels frozen for a long time, though in reality it's probably only two or three seconds, as he tries to wrap his head around the fact that Connor has just _fallen into his glass coffee table_. He's spurred into action as soon as he hears Connor's soft groan of pain.

His eyes have adjusted somewhat to the darkness, but not enough to properly see, so he reaches over and turns on the lamp on the end table.

He immediately feels like he's going to sick.

The glass is shattered into a thousand pieces all over the floor, sharp and jagged. Connor is sprawled out on his back over the metal framing of the table, still intact despite the weight of a fully grown man having fallen on it. It's digging into Connor's back, keeping him slightly arched off the floor. His legs are sprawled out on one side and his head is resting on the floor on the other. There is an unsettling amount of blood both on the floor and on Connor.

A litany of _oh my god oh my god oh my god_ is running through his head as he drops down to his knees―careful to avoid the glass―by Connor's head, saying his name, hands hovering but unsure what to do. Connor is conscious, thank god, but the amount of time it takes him to turn to Oliver's voice and the way he squints his eyes like he's having trouble seeing him makes a sick, panicky feeling flare up in his chest.

“Hey, hey,” Oliver says, trying to sound calm and almost managing it. “Connor.”

“Ouch,” Connor says.

Oliver chokes back a hysterical laugh, but it clears his mind enough to try and take stock of the situation. His arms are cut in several different places, but none of the cuts are very deep. He's almost positive Connor has a concussion. There's also a chance that he busted his head open and if that's the case, Oliver needs to try and stop the bleeding. But he doesn't want to risk moving him if he has a neck injury.

“Does your neck hurt?” Oliver asks. “Or your back? Connor, listen. This is important.”

Connor groans and lifts a hand to gingerly touch the side of his head. “My head hurts,” he says.

“I’m going to try and sit you up, okay?” He doesn’t know if that's the right thing to do, but he can't just leave him bleeding in a broken pile of glass. He prays he doesn't cause him irreparable damage and braces one hand underneath Connor's neck and wraps the other around his bicep. “Are you ready?”

Connor groans again and he takes that as a yes. Oliver starts gently lifting him up and before he can stop him, Connor reaches out a hand to brace himself on the floor. He hisses and jerks back, hand now cut and bloody. “Careful, careful,” Oliver says.

When he's sitting fully up, Oliver glances around at his back. Like his arms, it's cut up, but there are no shards of glass protruding from his skin like he had feared and none of the cuts look deep. There are a few smaller pieces of glass stuck to his skin and Oliver gently brushes them away. He nicks a few spots on his hand, but gives it no more thought. “We're going to stand up now, okay?” Oliver realizes he's talking to Connor likes he's a child and it's a testament to Connor's current state that he hasn't made a scathing remark yet.

“Okay,” Connor says and they slowly start standing up, Oliver's arms firmly around his waist. Connor sways on his feet and Oliver tightens his hold. When they're at full height, Connor stumbles a little, one hand coming up to hold his head.

“'m dizzy.”

Oliver winces.

There's glass all over the floor and the longer Connor stands, the unsteadier he gets. Oliver's a little worried Connor's going to pass out and he'd rather not cause him indirect harm twice within a ten minute time period. The glass thankfully hasn't spread all over the room. The floor in front of the chair closest to the door seems to be clear, so he slowly starts maneuvering them in that direction.

When Connor is finally sitting in the chair, Oliver says, “I'm going to check your head to see if you're bleeding, okay?”

He makes an agreeable noise and Oliver gently threads his fingers through his hair. It only takes a second to touch a wet spot that makes Connor jump and hiss out a pained breath.

“Sorry, I’m sorry.” His fingers are covered in blood when he pulls them back. He immediately starts looking for something within reach and he sees Connor's discarded shirt just a foot away on the floor. He grabs it and balls it up, pressing it firmly to the back of Connor's head. He glances around for one of their cell phones, but he doesn't see either of them. Of course not.

Connor is blinking slowly at him, looking dazed. It's unnerving seeing him anything less than his sharp, confident self. He looks exhausted and completely out of it.

“Can you hold this to your head?” he asks. “I need to find my phone.”

“Why?” he asks, reaching up to hold the t-shirt in place, wincing as the cuts on his arm are pulled.

Oliver blinks at him in surprise. “So I can call an ambulance.”

“No,” Connor groans, full on pout on his face. It's not as influencing when he's covered in blood. “No ambulances.”

“You're concussed and bleeding. You don't have a say in this.”

“Did you go to medical school when I wasn't looking?”

It's such a relief to hear Connor being snarky, being _Connor_ , he can't help but laugh. If Connor can still make cutting remarks, he's going to be okay. He didn't go to medical school, though, as Connor had so nicely pointed out, so he'd like a professional to confirm that. He starts searching high and low for one of their phones. He can't for the life of him remember where he left his, something that annoys Connor to no end, so he starts searching for Connor's. His is always, always on him, so he starts searching the couch, pulling back pillows and cushions until he finally finds it squished in between two cushions.

The call to 911 is thankfully short, him giving the operator a shortened, clean version of what happened. He rattles his address and is informed the ambulance should be arriving shortly. He hangs up, sighing with relief, and heads back over to Connor. He's pale and shaking from the cool air of Oliver's apartment, so he grabs the blanket off the back of the couch and wraps it gently around his shoulders, trying to mind the cuts.

He looks down at the hand Connor cut and winces. It looks like Connor dragged it across a cheese grater. Oliver can see a few shards of glass sticking into the skin.

“Can I see your hand?” he asks, holding out his own.

Connor places his hand palm up into Oliver's and Oliver carefully pulls out the shards of glass he can see. There are probably pieces deeper in the skin that he can't, but he doesn't want to risk hurting him more than he already his. When he's done, he takes over holding the shirt to Connor's head and Connor rests his forehead against Oliver's shoulder, letting out a shaky sigh.

Oliver strokes his hand up and down his back, trying to ignore the lump in his throat, until the paramedics knock on the door.

“I have to get up and answer the door, okay?” he asks gently.

Connor nods his head against his shoulder and leans back, hand going up to hold the t-shirt. Their hands brush, Connor's cold and his wet, and the lump grows bigger. He stands up before he does something horribly embarrassing like kiss his forehead.

When he opens the door, he quickly steps aside to make way for two men with a bag of medical equipment and a gurney. Neither of them seem fazed by the shattered glass and blood on the floor, barely giving it a second glance. He guesses this really isn't the worst thing they've ever seen.

“Good morning,” one of the EMTs says, loud and cheerful, immediately heading over to Connor. “My name is Alex and this is my partner, Mike.” He gestures to the shorter man, who has begun to set up the gurney. “Can you tell me your name?”

Connor is either too out of it to realize he's been asked a question, or is simply choosing to ignore him. Oliver wouldn't be surprised. Connor has Issues with overly cheerful people.

“Connor,” Oliver says. “His name is Connor Walsh.”

“Mr. Walsh, I’m going to take a look at your head,” he says. “Is that alright?”

Connor nods, hissing when the movement causes him pain.

“Easy, there,” Alex says. He opens up his bag and pulls out a package of gauze, ripping it open and pulling a handful out. He moves behind Connor and gently removes the t-shirt, examining the area.

Oliver moves to stand by Connor, out of the way of the EMT, and touches his arm lightly. Connor doesn't turn his head to look at him, but he does raise his hand and wraps it around Oliver's wrist.

“You are going to need stitches,” the EMT says as he tapes gauze to the area. “But only a few. Head wounds tend to bleed a lot.”

When he's done, he moves back in front of Connor and pulls a light from his bag. He turns it on and shines it into each of Connor's eyes. “Can you tell me what happened, Mr. Walsh?”

“I fell,” Connor says, gesturing to the coffee table but keeping his eyes on the light. The EMT is moving it up and down, side to side, watching Connor's reaction closely. “Into the coffee table.”

“Are you feeling dizzy? Or nauseous?”

“No.”

“Yes,” Oliver corrects. “He said he was dizzy when I was helping him up.”

Alex's lips twists upward in a smile and he shuts off the light. “It's very important that you tell me exactly how you're feeling, Mr. Walsh, so I can help you. Does your neck hurt?”

“A little,” Connor answers ruefully, tightening his hold on Oliver's wrist.

“That's not uncommon from a fall,” he says. He digs into his bag and pulls out a brace and Oliver feels like he's going to puke. He wants to ask if it's a precaution or if he thinks that Connor injured his neck, but he doesn't want to freak Connor out. Not that Connor is known for freaking out, but it's been a weird night. “I'm going to put this brace on your neck. It's just so your neck doesn't move around before it can be examined properly. It's going to feel tight, but you'll still be able to breathe just fine. Mike?”

The other EMT, who has finished setting up the gurney, comes over and they begin putting the brace on Connor. When it's secured, Alex says, “It's time to get you on the gurney and to the hospital.”

Connor looks less than pleased and doesn't release Oliver's wrist, so Oliver bends down and says, “Hey, it's okay.” His voice is so, so soft and he knows Connor is going to give him shit if he remembers this later. “You're going to be fine. You have a hard head. One little hit is nothing.”

He'll gladly take future Connor making fun of him for the way this one smiles.

“I'll be with you every step, okay?”

The EMT clears his throat. “You can't ride in the ambulance with us. Policy.”

Oliver forces himself to continue looking at Connor instead of glaring at the EMT. “Okay, change of plans. I’m going to grab some clothes so you don't distract all of the hospital staff and then I'll head straight over. You'll barely even know I’m gone.”

Connor doesn't say anything, but he does let go of Oliver's wrist. Oliver steps aside, watching as the two EMTs maneuver Connor from the chair to the gurney. In no time he's strapped in and being wheeled through the door and to the elevator. Oliver follows close behind. It's only when the elevator doors open and they begin wheeling him in that Oliver realizes he has no idea what hospital they're going to.

“Wait!” he calls, practically running to the elevator.

Alex stops the elevator door from closing with an arm, eyebrow raised.

“What hospital are you taking him to?”

“St. Mary's,” he says. He releases the door and they're gone.

Oliver stares at the closed doors for a few seconds before hurrying back inside.

Connor doesn't have any extra clothes here, but he's close enough to Oliver's size that Oliver won’t have a major problem finding him something to wear. The long sleeve shirt he grabs will be a little tight and the sweatpants a little long, but the sweatshirt—an old college one—is worn soft and perfect. He grabs a gym bag from his closet and throws the clothes in. He grabs a jacket and puts it on as he heads to the living room.

As he's grabbing his keys from the end table, he sees his phone peeking out from the now neatly stacked files Connor had brought over. He grabs it, slips on his shoes and out the door. He has the elevator door open before he realizes that he forgot to get Connor's shoes. He heads back in, grabs them and then he's on his way.

He makes the fifteen minute trip to the hospital in just under ten thanks to the nonexistent traffic on the road and a heavier foot than usual. He’s usually a stickler for safe driving, but he’ll make an exception just this once.

When he gets there, he is informed by the very tired looking nurse at the front desk to take a seat and a doctor will be out shortly to talk to him. He is patient for ten, fifteen, thirty minutes before he's had enough.

“I'm sorry, sir,” the nurse—Mindy, her name tag informs him—says, giving him a sympathetic look. “I can't tell you anything and I can't let you back there. You aren't family.”

Oliver pinches the bridge of his nose, sighing. His hand stings and he winces. “I know, I know- it's just. I’m sorry.”

“I understand,” she says, looking truthful. She eyes his hand, reaching for the phone to the left of her. “I'm going to call someone down here to check your hand.”

“You don't have-”

“Not an option,” she says, already dialing.

He sits back down in the ridiculously uncomfortable chair and drops his face into his hands. He hates hospitals. He hasn’t been in one since he was ten years old and dislocated his shoulder while playing with his older sister. They used to play this game where they’d drag each other across the carpet to see who could give the other a bigger carpet burn. It was stupid and dangerous and they didn’t realize it until his sister yanked too hard and his shoulder popped out of place. It hurt like hell, his mom yelled for ages and the hospital smelled like bleach. He promised his ten year old self he’d never go back and he’d held true to that promise until tonight.

Oh _god_ , he cannot believe he dropped Connor into his glass coffee table. He’ll be lucky if Connor ever wants to talk to him again.

He’s saved from drowning in his own guilt and misery by someone clearing their throat

A sweet looking young woman with a high ponytail and blues scrubs is standing in front of him. “Hello, Mr…” she trails off, raising an eyebrow.

“Oliver,” he says, tiredly.

“Oliver, my name is Dr. Kelley and if you’ll follow me, I can fix up your hand.”

He wants to object, but she looks as exhausted as he feels and the soft smile she’s giving him makes it hard to do anything but listen. He grabs his gym bag and follows her across the waiting room and behind the double doors leading to the ER. He perks up immediately, only to deflate when he looks around the room and doesn’t see Connor.

She gestures to one of the empty beds and he sits down heavily, holding out his cut hand. She studies it closely, turning it over and examining each cut. “You won’t need stitches,” she says, relinquishing her grip. “But they do need to be cleaned. It’ll only take a few minutes.”

He tries to wait patiently as she gathers up Q-tips, gauze and something liquid in a clear bottle, but his foot is tapping steadily on the floor and he can’t stop glancing around, trying to catch a glimpse of Connor. He just wants to know something, _anything_.

“Looking for someone?” she asks. She’s sitting in a chair in front of him, supplies laid out on a small silver table to the right of her.

“Yeah,” he answers, holding out his hand. She places it palm up on the table and wheels a light over, adjusting it until it shines over the cut skin. “Connor Walsh. Have you heard anything about him?”

“Sorry,” she says, shaking her head, eyes on his palm and hands steady as she looks for glass in the small cuts. “He isn’t one of my patient.”

“Of course not,” he sighs. He would be so lucky.

“He your boyfriend?”

“Definitely not after tonight.” Not that he was to begin with, but Oliver is honest enough with himself to admit he’s been hoping that it was leading in that direction.

“What happened?”

He feels his face start to turn red. “I kind of uh, dropped him into my glass coffee table.”

That has her pausing and looking up, eyebrows raised. “And how’d you do that?”

He’s pretty sure every ounce of blood in his entire body has relocated to his face. How humiliating. “Let’s just say some things should stay in the bedroom.”

Her face twists up, like she’s trying not to laugh. She presses her lips firmly together and looks back down at his hand, resuming her work. “Well, as unfortunate as that is, I’m sure he’ll forgive you. These things happen.”

“Yeah?” he asks warily.

She nods. “You wouldn’t believe the stuff I’ve seen here. There’s a crazy sex accident at least once a week. This is going to sting.”

It does. He hisses out a pained breath as she swipes the liquid soaked Q-tip across the cuts. “And anyway,” she continues, throwing away the current one and grabbing another. “Whatever you were doing that ended up with him in a coffee table, he was part of it too. I bet he won’t even sue.”

“I don’t know. He is a lawyer.” Sort of. “It’s in his nature to be litigious.”

Connor definitely isn’t going to sue, if only for the act of saving face. Oliver can’t imagine Connor ever willingly admitting not only did one of his hookups not go well, but that it was bad enough to land him in the hospital.

She snorts. “All done,” she declares, throwing the used supplies in a waste bin and pulling her gloves off. She tosses those in too and stands up.

He has tiny white bandages on several places on his palm and two of his fingers. It feels incredibly inadequate when he thinks back to all the cuts he saw on Connor’s arms, back and hand. It looks less like he dragged it over a cheese grater and more like he has a few paper cuts.

A sigh has him glancing up. Dr. Kelley is looking down at him with her hands on her hips and a contemplative expression on her face. “Listen,” she says. “I really shouldn’t do this, but you look like a kicked puppy and I’m running on about three hours of sleep.”

“What are you saying?” he asks suspiciously. He has a feeling he knows exactly what she’s saying, but he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

“I’m going to see if I can find your boy―Connor Walsh, right?”

He nods.

“And you are going to stay right there and not move an inch until I get back. Alright?”

He nods.

“I’ll be right back.”

He watches as she walks through a different set of double doors. When she disappears, he looks down at his hand and tries not to look like he just got a doctor to break hospital policy for him. No one pays him any attention, too busy tending to people with varying degrees of injury, so he guesses he’s doing a decent job of it.

When she returns roughly ten minutes later, she isn’t the wearing the expression of someone about to deliver bad news and Oliver breathes out a sigh of relief.

“How is he?” he asks as soon as she’s in hearing distance. “Is he okay? When can-”

She holds up a hand, silencing him. “He’s getting a CT done right now, but he’s awake and talking―complaining, really―which is a good sign.”

“Okay, good,” he says, unable to stop the smile that breaks out on his face. “That sounds like Connor. Do you know when I can see him?”

She shakes her head, giving him a sympathetic look. “It’ll still probably be a bit. That’s really all I can tell you. You’re all set here, so you’re going to have to go back to the waiting until his doctor gets you.”

“Thank you so much,” he says, standing up and following her as she makes her way across the room and toward the doors leading to the waiting room. “Seriously, thank-”

She stops when they reach them and holds up a hand, once again silencing him. “I understand that’s it stressful not knowing how a loved one is doing and I know we aren’t always the best about keeping you updated. So, really, it’s no problem. Just go sit down and try not to harass Mindy, alright? She isn’t above cold-cocking you with her phone if you bother her too much.”

And so he finds himself once again sitting in the waiting room, but he isn’t as tightly wound as before. He watches people with various ailments coming in and out to pass the time. It’s a surprisingly large number for―he glances at the clock on the wall―six-thirty in the morning.

The time startles him and he realizes he should be leaving for work in about forty-five minutes. That absolutely won’t be happening, so he digs around his bag for his phone and calls him boss. She’s surprisingly sympathetic for having been called so early on her personal phone. She tells him not to worry, to take the day off and wishes Connor well.

He sees Connor’s phone when he’s putting his own back and pauses. He knows Connor has court at nine-thirty this morning, which he definitely won’t be making, but Oliver isn’t sure when Connor’s going to be able to call someone and inform them of that. He hesitates a moment before grabbing the phone and scrolling through the contacts until he finds the name he’s looking for.

Despite the time, Annalise Keating sounds wide awake when she answers with a curt, “Yes, Mr. Walsh?”

“Uh,” he articulates. “This isn’t Connor.”

“Then who are you?” she asks, not missing a beat.

“My name is Oliver. I’m a friend of Connor’s.”

“Why are you calling me at six-thirty in the morning from Mr. Walsh’s cell phone?”

Okay, yeah, he gets why Connor gets this slightly awed, slightly fearful look on his face when he talks about her. Oliver’s been talking to her for a grand total of ten seconds and he already wants to hang up and call his boss to tell her how nice and wonderful she is. Nevertheless, he squashes the urge and answers, “Because Connor’s in the emergency room and he can’t?” He doesn’t mean for it to come out sounding like a question, but he’s kind of out of his element and definitely intimidated.

There’s a brief pause before she answers, “What happened?”

There is no way in hell he is telling this woman the full truth. “It’s kind of a long story, but he more or less fell into a glass table. I don’t know the full extent yet, but he’s pretty cut up and probably has a concussion. I know he has court in a few hours, but there’s no way he’s going to make it. He’s still with the doctors, so I wasn’t sure when he was going to have the chance to call.”

He waits patiently while she absorbs all of this. After several seconds, she says, “Tell Mr. Walsh to give me a call sometime today when he’s up to it and we’ll discuss what to do from there.”

“Alright, I will.”

She hangs up and Oliver sighs in relief. Jesus, no wonder Connor is so tense all the time.

He’s done everything he can, so he slouches down in the chair and tries not to stare at the clock as he waits.

Forty-five long, _long_ minutes later, an older man with graying hair and a white lab coat comes through the doors. He’s carrying a clipboard. “Family of Connor Walsh?”

Oliver is out of his seat and standing in front of the doctor in record time.

“My name is Dr. Stevens and I’m the attending physician on Mr. Walsh’s case tonight,” he says, holding out a hand. Oliver shakes it despite the way it makes the cuts sting. “What’s your relationship to Mr. Walsh?”

“I’m Oliver, I’m a friend."

“Right,” Dr. Stevens says. Oliver can’t tell if he believes him or not. “Mr. Walsh has been asking for you.”

If he didn’t believe him before, he definitely doesn’t now. Oliver knows his face looks like a puppy who’s just been given a treat. If he wasn’t so happy, he’d be embarrassed for his complete lack of an ability to control his expression.

“How is he?”

The doctor gestures for him to follow and explains as they walk. “The gash on the back of his head needed five stitches and one of the cuts on his hand needed only two. The others just needed to be cleaned and bandaged. He has a mild concussion, but the CT showed no sign of a brain bleed. He’s going to be sore for the next few weeks, but he should be fine.”

“Thank god,” Oliver says, feeling a little breathless.

He follows the doctor through the double doors he’d gone through earlier and across the tiled floor. There is no sign of Dr. Kelley, but he doesn’t give it much thought as he’s led to a curtained off area. “He’s right through there,” Dr. Stevens says, gesturing behind the curtains.

Connor looks _wrecked_.

He’s sitting on one of the beds, slumped with his legs dangling over the side. He’s wearing the same jeans he had come in with, but he’s now wearing a green scrub top. There are bandages all over his arms, crisscrossing and overlapping in several places, and his hand is wrapped. His hair is limp and greasy, falling over his forehead and into his eyes. His face is pale and the bags underneath his eyes are so dark they almost look like bruises.

Oliver is frozen in place until Connor makes an impatient noise and says, “You look awful.”

Oliver chokes on a laugh and moves to stand in front of him, hands hovering, wanting to touch but not sure if he should. “You don’t look so great yourself.”

“Yeah, well. You try breaking your fall with a glass table and we’ll see how great you look.”

A wave of guilt crashes over him and he feels like he’s choking on it as he says, “Connor, I’m-”

“Shut up,” Connor says, but there’s no heat behind it. “Just shut up. It’s not your fault.”

He grabs one of Oliver’s wrists and tugs on it, pulling him closer. He doesn’t stop until Oliver’s standing between his legs, thighs touching the mattress. He drops his forehead onto Oliver’s chest and sighs.

Oliver feels overwhelmingly glad the doctor didn’t follow him into the curtained off area because he feels like he’s about to do something horribly embarrassing as he gently wraps his arms around Connor. Like maybe burst into tears.

“How are you feeling?”

“My head is killing me,” Connor mumbles into his chest. 

“We are _never_ having sex in the living room again,” Oliver says vehemently. “From now on its missionary position in the bed with the lights off.”

Connor huffs out a laugh. “Please. We’d be bored to death within a week.”

“Boring is better than this.”

“They thought you did it,” Connor says suddenly.

Oliver freezes. “What?”

Connor pulls back, rubbing a hand down his face. “They thought you pushed me into the table. They didn’t come out and ask, but they hinted.”

“It’s their job to,” he says, even though the thought makes him feel sick.

“I told them you’re way more passive aggressive than that,” Connor says, one side of his mouth pulling up in a weak smirk. “That you’d withhold sex for a week or give me the silent treatment.”

“Maybe not a _full_ week,” Oliver says, giving into the urge to touch Connor’s face. He sighs, leaning into the touch, and Oliver can't imagine anyone ever willingly hurting him. 

Someone clearing their throat has Oliver jumping, dropping his hand, and Connor opening his eyes with an annoyed look on his face.

A male nurse is standing just inside the curtains, clipboard in hand and apologetic look on his face.

“Oh, god,” Connor says. “Not you again.”

Oliver eyes widen. Connor isn’t exactly known for his tactful nature, but he’s never downright rude.

The nurse simply laughs though and Oliver realizes he’s missed something. “Uh,” he says.

“He shaved my head,” Connor deadpans, glaring at the nurse.

The nurse looks wholly unfazed by Connor’s dislike of him. If anything, he looks like he’s trying not to laugh. Oliver marvels at Connor’s ability to charm people even when he’s hurt, cranky and most certainly not trying to.

“I did not shave your head,” he says. “I shaved a tiny patch for your stitches. The rest of your hair covers it.”

“Can I leave now?” Connor asks impatiently.

“Almost,” the nurse says. “There are just a few things we need to go over before Dr. Stevens can discharge you.”

“Wonderful.”

“Connor,” Oliver chastises, nudging his arm. Connor turns his glare on him, but he does stop talking, so Oliver counts it as a win.

“Even though your concussion is mild, you need to be with someone for the next twenty four hours to monitor your symptoms and wake you up every hour or so when you sleep. Do you have someone to do that?”

Connor glances at Oliver and Oliver nods. Like he’d actually let Connor go home by himself with a concussion and busted head.

“Good,” the nurse says, looking pleased. “The main thing you need to do is rest. Your body needs time to heal and that’s going to take a few days. No physical activity of any kind until you’re no longer showing symptoms. It’s also a good idea to limit strenuous cognitive activities.”

“I’m a law student who interns for one of the best defense attorney’s in the state.”

“Not for the next few days you aren’t,” the nurse says cheerfully. “You should avoid watching TV, using the internet and texting for the next day or so. For pain medication you can take acetaminophen products like Tylenol. Avoid ibuprofen and aspirin because it can cause bleeding. Any questions so far?”

Connor’s opens his mouth to make what Oliver is sure to be a scathing remark, but Oliver shushes him and asks, “Is there anything we should look out for?”

“Vomiting, confusion, slurred speech, drastic change in behavior. It’s unlikely, but I’ll get you a list of things as well as how to properly clean and change the bandages on his head and body. After that we can start discharging.”

“Thank you,” Oliver says.

“I’ll leave you to get changed, he says, giving them a nod and closing the curtain behind him.

“I’m so _screwed_ ,” Connor groans, dropping his head into his hands. “I can’t not go to school and work. Annalise is probably going to fire me and―oh _god_ , I have court in like two hours, I _completely_ forgot. Annalise is going to-”

“Relax, Connor,” Oliver says, grabbing his shoulders. “I called Annalise for you. She knows what’s going on.”

Connor freezes, looking up. “You called Annalise?”

“Yeah,” Oliver says, wondering if this has violated some weird rule that only makes sense to Connor.

But Connor just sighs in relief, once again dropping his head onto Oliver’s chest. “Have I ever told you you’re the best boyfriend ever?” he mumbles.

Oliver freezes, eyes widening. He’s scared to move, waiting for Connor’s words to catch up to him and the fallout of epic proportions he knows will follow. He counts to thirty in his head and Connor is still loose limbed and relaxed, so Oliver forces himself to do the same.

So Connor called him his boyfriend. He isn’t going to make a deal about it. Connor hasn’t slept in over twenty four hours and he has a concussion. He isn’t his normal self-right now and Oliver would be an asshole to hold this against him.

“Ready to change?” Oliver asks, attempting to steer the conversation in a safe direction.

Connor pulls back, smiling up at him. " _Yes_ ,” he says. “I feel nasty and these scrubs are god awful.”

Connor attempts to pull the top off, but the movement has him wincing in pain, so Oliver takes over. It’s strangely intimate, taking off someone’s clothes when it’s not leading to sex. Connor is silent, eyes starting to droop as Oliver removes the offensively bright scrub top and puts on his own shirt. The jeans are impossible to remove sitting down, so Connor stands up, leaning against the bed and Oliver as he peels them off and replaces them with the sweatpants. He sits back down immediately and doesn’t object when Oliver begins putting his shoes on. He’s just pulled the sweatshirt down around Connor’s waist when the nurse returns with the paperwork.

The process that follows is, thankfully, straightforward and quick. Connor signs a ridiculous amount of paperwork and is reminded by his doctor what he should and shouldn’t do. Then they’re leaving, Oliver’s arm wrapped firmly around Connor’s waist as they walk to the car.

It’s a little after seven when they finally get on the road. Apparently there’s an accident, so they get stuck in traffic. The combination of the bright morning sun and honking horns has Connor wincing. Oliver hands over his sunglasses, which Connor accepts gratefully, but he can’t do anything about the noise. Thankfully, traffic starts moving again fairly quickly and he’s pulling into the parking lot fifteen minutes later.

By the time they walk through the door, Connor is leaning on him, half asleep. He drops the gym bag on the floor and guides Connor into the bedroom. He peels off the sweatshirt, but leaves on the t-shirt and sweatpants as he slides into bed.

“I’m going to get you some Tylenol,” Oliver says. “Don’t fall asleep yet.”

Connor hums in agreement.

Connor is, surprisingly, still awake when he gets back with two Tylenol and a glass of water, but just barely.

“Are you coming to bed?” Connor asks, after he’s swallowed the pills and set the glass on the nightstand.

Oliver can’t think of anything he wants more than to slide into bed beside Connor and sleep for the next twelve hours, but there’s a mess of glass and blood on his living room floor that he wants gone. Not to mention he has to wake Connor up every hour, which he can't do if he's asleep too. “I’m going to clean up the living room and then I will.”

“Okay,” Connor murmurs and then he’s asleep.

Oliver eyes the bed mournfully before getting up. He closes the door quietly, grabs the broom and dustpan and gets to work.

He’s only swept up a fraction of the glass when a phone starts ringing. No one would be calling him this early in the morning, so it must be Connor’s. He sets aside the broom and fishes around in the gym bag until he finds it. The contact reads “Prom Queen.” Oliver vaguely remembers Connor complaining about someone and calling them that, so he answers.

“Hello?”

“Hi, this is Michaela Pratt,” a female voice informs him. “I work with Connor. He brought home some files last night and we need them for court today. Is he there?”

He glances at the files still in a neat stack on the end table. “Yeah, he’s asleep right now, but the files are right in front of me. I can give you my address and you can pick them up?”

“Excellent.”

He tells her his address and she informs him she’ll be there in five minutes before hanging up. He stares at the phone for a few seconds before setting in on the table beside the files and resuming his work.

He gets through half of the mess this time before he's interrupted by a knock on the door.

Michaela Pratt is gorgeous in that scary, no nonsense kind of way. Her dark hair falls in curls over her shoulders and Oliver is willing to bet her dress costs more than most of his wardrobe put together.

“I’m sorry to drop in, but we really need those files.”

“No problem,” he says, wavering her in. “I was up anyway.”

She takes in the mess of smeared blood and glass on the floor with raised eyebrows. “Annalise said Connor was in the hospital, but she didn’t say what happened.”

“He kind of um, fell into the table.”

She cocks her head, clearly not believing him, “Right,” she says slowly. “You’re Oliver, aren’t you? The IT guy?”

He blinks. “Yeah, I am.”

“Connor talks about you sometimes,” she explains.

The surprise must show on his face because Michaela gives him a small smile. “Don’t worry, we don’t exactly sit around having heart to hearts, you know? It just comes up sometimes.”

“Right,” Oliver agrees, feeling himself start to blush.

As much as he wants to know what Connor’s said about him, _especially_ after the boyfriend slip up, he isn’t going to grill Connor's coworker for information. He grabs the stack of files and holds them out, hoping it’ll stop that particular conversation in its tracks. “I haven’t seen any more files around the apartment, so I think that should be all of them.”

She flips through them briefly, eyes narrowed and lips moving slightly. She nods to herself when she’s reached the end and glances back up at Oliver. The look on her face makes him think he wasn’t as successful as he’d like.

“He’s a real piece of work, you know," she says, no malice in her voice. She says it like someone would say the grass is green or the sun is hot. A statement of fact. 

“Yeah, I know,” he says, smiling a little. “But he’s also pretty great sometimes too.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” she says. “Thanks for letting me drop by.”

“Good luck in court.”

She’s just stepped in the hallway and he’s about to close the door when she turns around. “Tell Connor I hope his brain isn’t too scrambled. It wouldn’t be as satisfying beating him if it is.” And with that, she’s gone.

Oliver sends a silent thanks to his eighteen year old self for not majoring in law and returns to cleaning. Thirty minutes later the floor is clear of both glass and blood, the shards and red stained paper towels are in not one, but two heavy duty garbage bags and the room smells satisfyingly of Clorox. He sticks the dustpan in the bags as well and wraps another bag around the bloody bristles of the broom. He sets all of it by the door, unwilling to walk downstairs to the large garbage disposal area right now.

Connor is just beginning to stir when Oliver slips underneath the covers in his boxers, laptop in hand.

“Did I hear Michaela Pratt in your apartment earlier or do we need to go back to the hospital?” Connor asks, eyes still closed.

Oliver laughs. “Yeah, she called your phone and I gave her my address. She needed the files. She said she hopes you feel better, by the way.”

That has Connor’s eyes opening. He scoffs, giving Oliver a disbelieving look. “Do _you_ have a concussion?”

“She did, I swear.”

“Michael Pratt said she hoped I felt better?”

“In a roundabout, insulting sort of way, yes.”

Connor snorts. “Yeah, that sounds more like her.”

“How are you feeling?”

“Still exhausted,” he says. He rubs his eyes with a fist and it makes something dangerous swell up in Oliver’s chest. “My entire body is throbbing and I want to sleep for the next week.”

“That week is going to be interrupted in hour intervals.”

Connor groans, mashing his face into the pillow.

Oliver pats him gently on the forearm where there are no white bandages. “Sorry. I’d rather you not slip into a coma.”

“Yeah?” Connor asks, looking up at him with one eye.

“Yeah,” Oliver confirms. “I haven’t had to buy my own take out in _weeks_.”

Connor snorts, but his blinks are gradually getting longer. “What can I say? I’m the best.”

“Glad to see your ego remains intact. Go to sleep, Connor. I’ll wake you up in an hour.”

“Kay,” he mumbles and falls asleep.

Oliver is unwilling to admit the amount of time he spends staring at Connor, marveling at how fond he is of him after only a few weeks, before he tears his eyes away and turns on his laptop. There’s only so much work he can do from home, but it’ll keep him alert enough not to fall asleep. He’s exhausted, but he’s willing to lose a few hours of sleep if it means keeping Connor safe and healthy.

He can’t help but think about what Connor said at the hospital. He’s sticking with his decision of not bringing it up, but the seed of hope has been planted in his mind. He already knew that Connor liked him. Enough to talk about his job and his schooling, to sleep with him on a regular basis, to _not_ sleep with him, but come over anyway. He knows Connor likes him, but now he thinks maybe it can grow into something even more.

It's still kind of awful and still really confusing and on top of all that, Oliver’s now a little worried this boy is going to break his heart, but the way Connor turns into him, resting his forehead against his hipbone and curling a hand around his side?

So worth it.

 

**Author's Note:**

> come cry with me on [tumblr](http://www.oliverhamptoned.tumblr.com)


End file.
